


Naughty or Nice?

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Naughty or NIce - Freeform, santa, santa dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2818010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime in the next ten minutes she is going to kill Lanie, because she is currently perched on a bar stool in a Miss Santa costume. Unashamed Christmas fluff, with little plot and less excuse.<br/>Previously posted to fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Making a list

Murder will be done tonight.  The victim is standing right over there, happily chatting up the nearest hot guy, all done up in spangles and looking like an ambulant Christmas tree.  Lanie’s even managed a tiny set of flashing Christmas lights around her invitingly low neckline.  (It’s not that Beckett’s _jealous_ of Lanie’s – er – endowment.  It’s just that sometimes she feels a little slim.)  Still, she won’t need to worry about it in Bedford Hills Correctional.  Because sometime in the next ten minutes she is going to kill Lanie for this.

She should never have agreed to come out with Lanie just before Christmas.  She certainly shouldn’t have agreed to come out dressed with a Christmas theme, even if the whole bar is full of Christmas costumes.  But most of all, she shouldn’t have agreed that – because she was busy solving homicides, for God’s sake – Lanie could provide her with an outfit.  She must have been mad.  Or drunk.  Or drugged.  Yes, that’s it.  Lanie must have bribed Espo to dope her coffee with a roofie.  Plenty of those down in Narcotics, and Ryan still has plenty of friends there – she’ll kill them both too.  If you’re going to go down for Murder One, you might as well make a good job of it.

And now here she is perched on a bar stool with a glass of mulled wine – which Lanie had ordered without even listening to her protests that she’d rather have Coke and then added insult to injury by telling her that she’s too staid and too sober and Lanie is damn well going to make sure she has some fun, girlfriend.  Said in Lanie’s patent menacing tone.  It had got even worse when Lanie had said she’d ensured it.  Oh, _God_.  This is going to be awful.

Because she is currently perched on a bar stool in a Miss Santa costume that wouldn’t be out of place in Vice’s extensive closets, and it was only by threatening to make Lanie eat it that she managed not to have to wear the hat.  The skirt is indecently short – Lanie _knows_ how tall she is, for Chrissake, how could she not get a costume that was at least somewhere near her knees – and the bodice is low.  At least there’s a cape, but it’s not keeping her warm.  From the number of propositions and leers she’s getting, it’s not doing much to cover her, either.  She sits on her bar stool and glares impartially around the room, knocking back flirtation from both sexes and her spirits so far from Christmas that she might as well be in Siberia.  Where it wouldn’t be Christmas for another couple of weeks.

She is definitely going to kill Lanie, she decides, as she brushes off another barfly of unpleasant looks, dubious sobriety, and bad teeth.  Dragged her out here, dressed like this – why did she agree?  She didn’t have to agree.  Oh.  Because Lanie emotionally blackmailed her, promised that there would be no photos – well, that was a lie – promised that the boys wouldn’t come – that was another lie, and she will undoubtedly _suffer_ for the next week – and then threatened her with scalpels and mortuary slabs – which would have been better than this – and with having to watch a full autopsy.  At that point, she’d given in.  She can cope with most things, but Lanie extracting brains, guts, and entrails and the horrible smell of the dissected bowel is one threat too many.  But there is one saving grace.  Castle isn’t here.

Nor, of course, are Lanie and the boys.  Because they are all out in the crowded bar chatting up various people in rather less revealing costumes and having fun.  In Lanie’s case, if she has much more fun she’ll be on an indecent arrest charge.  She’s an inch from a serious wardrobe malfunction, though from the admiring crowd around her that’s not putting anyone off.  Beckett pushes her mulled wine away, untouched, and summons the bartender.  His response would be flatteringly immediate, if she weren’t in such a bad mood. 

She orders whiskey, undiluted, and feels the sting of the hard liquor touch her throat.  She feels much better for the act of rebellion.  That’ll show Lanie.  Ha!  She smirks nastily.  Now if Lanie will just keep her attention turned away till Beckett’s finished the whiskey, she can sneak out and go home.  She’s got a good book waiting for her and she can take off this stupid costume and not look like the December picture for a pin-up calendar.

“Well, now,” drawls in her ear.  Oh _hell_.  Lanie is dead.  Lanie is so dead.  Beckett is going to eviscerate Lanie with her own scalpels and tie her intestines in a Christmas wreath around her head.  Oh, _hell_.  What is Castle doing here?  Is this Lanie’s idea of ensuring that she, Beckett, has some _fun_?  Lanie is out of her mind.  Lanie _promised_ no Castle.  Lanie is a world-class liar and absolutely not Beckett’s friend any more.

“If I’d known that Santa looked like this I’d have behaved a lot better.”  Beckett glares furiously at Castle.  “I never imagined that Santa came in a female variety.”  He looks her up and down.  “This is _so_ much better than a fat, bearded, old man.”  He runs another appreciative glance up and down her, very slowly.  “Mmmm.”  Despite her Scrooge-like mood, the glance strokes up and down the legs it’s examining and warms them up in a most peculiar way.  Must be the whiskey.

Beckett recovers some game.  “I shouldn’t think Santa will visit you, Castle.  Santa only visits good children.”

“You’re always telling me that I’m a child.  A – what was it?  Oh yes – nine-year old on a sugar rush.  So I’m sure Santa will visit.  And I’ve been very good, all year.”  She waits for the punchline.  She’s not disappointed.  “I’m very, very good.  When Santa arrives in my bedroom late at night, she won’t be leaving coal.  Or leaving disappointed.”  The lascivious lick of his tongue over the last word gives Beckett a very clear idea of how Castle would ensure Santa was happy.  She’d thought that Santa responded to _children_.  And to _nice_.  Not naughty.  Especially not naughty in Castle’s definition, which sounds pretty adult to her.  There’s a little spark of warmth in her stomach.  It’s definitely the whiskey.  It’s not Castle’s proximity and salacious suggestiveness at all.  Not at all.

“She won’t be disappointed because she won’t be there at all.  Santa doesn’t exist.  And even if Santa did exist he’s male.  Old and fat.”

Castle moves a little closer, crowding Beckett against the bar.  “Clearly that’s not true.  Santa’s right here, and she doesn’t look old, fat or male to me.”  He’s distracted by her whiskey glass, which is close to empty.  “Want another?”  She nods.  He doesn’t wait further before ordering two.

“What happened to your Christmas costume?”  Beckett asks crossly.  If she has to be dressed up, why isn’t he?  She doesn’t want to be the only one looking like an idiot.  Though Ryan’s Christmas tie – over a Santa suit?  Huh? – is truly tasteless.  Rudolph’s red nose flashes, for heaven’s sake.  Ugghhh.  And Espo as an elf is a picture she’d go to electroconvulsive therapy to have scrubbed from her brain.

Castle smirks.  “Wouldn’t you like to see my contribution to Christmas costumes, Beckett?”  She’s not falling for that one.  She slurps her whiskey defiantly.   “Or you could come and see my Christmas tree.  Having a big one is so important, don’t you agree?”

“Size is irrelevant.  It’s how you decorate it that counts.” Uh-oh.  Castle’s eyes darken.  How can he make something dirty out of that?

“You could help me… decorate.  It’s so much more fun with two.  Makes… placing the decorations… so much nicer.”  Hold on.  How is his hand on her knee?  When did that happen?  Why isn’t she breaking his fingers for sketching little snowflake patterns on her leg?  On the other hand it sounds like he’s offering her an out.  She can deal with an awful lot of innuendo if it gives her a chance to get out of here.  He’s still talking.  “I’m sure I’ve been good all year.  But maybe Santa needs a little more evidence.”

“Bit late, Castle.”  Another sip.  His hand hasn’t moved.  His hand is warm.  Or more specifically, she is getting warm.  “This close to Christmas, it’s all decided.”  He’s drawn enough snowflakes for them to start to cause a snowdrift, which is now reaching above her knee.

“I don’t think so.  I think Santa takes account of your behaviour right up till the last minute.”  His other arm seems to have insinuated itself under the cape.  More snowflakes.  These ones seem to be settling on her shoulders.   She’d always thought that snow was cold.  Clearly this is the wrong type of snow.  Strange how it feels so very like the _right_ type of snow.  “Her opinion could be changed.”  He smiles sleepily.  “Couldn’t it?  I’m sure Santa keeps an open mind.”  Why does that sound so very much like Santa keeps something else open?  More to the point, how is she relaxing against his arm and _still_ letting him draw snowflakes on her leg?  On the other hand, she hasn’t been bothered by a barfly since the moment Castle appeared.  So that’s a definite plus. 

She drinks another sip of her whiskey, and looks, surprised, at the bottom of the almost-empty glass.  Where did that go?  She’d better stop.  Two whiskeys is enough.  Especially when they don’t seem to be doing anything to prevent the snowdrift of snowflakes rising noticeably higher above her knee.  This should stop.  She clamps her hand over Castle’s and tries to pull him away.  His hand does indeed leave her leg.  Success. 

Oh.  Not success.  All that’s happened is that he’s holding on to her hand, and pulling her up, and now in her scarlet stilettos (Lanie’s fault, again.  Lanie is so dead.) she’s only a little below eye to eye.  It’s not fair that he’s licking his lips.  Still, it’s only the traces of his whiskey.  She’s sure of that.  Because if she thought he was licking for any other reason she would sit back down on the bar stool or go and hide in the restroom and then make an escape.  She’ll easily get a cab.  Based on the shortness of this skirt, they’ll be queuing up for her, along with a queue of every drunk single man in Manhattan.  But the arm around her shoulders isn’t loosening.  It’s tightening.  There is very little air in this bar.  Breathing is getting a little more difficult than she would like, and every time she does she gets another lungful of eau-de-Castle, which when combined with the whiskey is giving her some very strange sensations. 

This is all very silly, and not Beckett-like at all.  Time to stop it.  She does not need strangely seductive sensations pooling in her abdomen. She looks around.  Lanie is missing.  The boys are missing.  Castle is not missing, because he is still holding on to her hand and her shoulders.  This is not fair.  They’ve abandoned her.

“Where’s Lanie?  Where are Ryan and Esposito?”  Castle looks smug.

“Well… Lanie went off with someone and said she’d see you tomorrow, or whenever she had some lab results.  Ryan went home, and Esposito’s chatting up another cop in the corner over there.”

Beckett looks over, and rapidly looks away again.  She didn’t need to see that.  Esposito will clearly not serve as any form of defence.  He looks very… occupied.

Castle tugs at her.  Since she’s not expecting it, she ends up pressed against him.  He’s nice and warm.  He pets the velvet of the cape.  “Come on, Beckett.  Let’s get out of here.”  She rolls her eyes.  “C’mon.  I’ve got a surprise for us.”  Yeah, right.  She can just imagine what sort of a surprise.  However, all her _friends_ – like hell they are, or they’d be here with her – have deserted her, she’s finished her drink, and she wants to go home.  Preferably without freezing due to the scantiness of this ridiculous outfit.  She can ditch Castle as soon as she sees a cab.

Castle doesn’t seem to notice her reluctance to do anything other than go home.  He’s bubbling over with Christmas spirit and tidings of comfort and joy.  Ugh.  She’s not sure how much he just tipped the bartender but it looks like it’s made his year.  Well, letting her get out of here will make hers.  Her feelings of relief that she’s out of the bar are instantly frozen by the outside temperature.

“You’re cold,” Castle says, with considerable surprise, wrapping an arm round her and pulling her in.  It would be nicer if he lent her his coat.  In fact – why isn’t he?  He’s not normally rude, and he normally does attend to her comfort.  Whether she likes it or not.

“Yeah, genius.  This outfit is not warm.”

“No.  It wasn’t designed for warmth, was it?”  The expression on his face is clearly suggesting what it was designed for.  It’s the sartorial equivalent of wrapping paper.  And if she could only get home  it could be ripped off (and she is _not_ thinking that Castle could help with that.  Not not not.  Much.) and she could put on something more appropriate.  And warm.  She shivers.

“It wasn’t my idea, either,” Beckett mutters darkly.  “When I get hold of Lanie…”  Her vengeful mutterings are abruptly halted when a horse-drawn carriage stops.

“There we are. Santa needs a sleigh.” He hands her up.  She’d argue, but the carriage has – oh joy – blankets.  Big, warm, fluffy blankets.  She’s in faster than Santa delivers presents on Christmas Eve, and buried in as many of them as she can fit round herself.  Castle grins at her, slips in next to her, and spends the next couple of minutes rearranging all the blankets so that they’re tucked in together. 

The blankets are beautifully cosy.  Castle’s arm is back around her, and it’s cosy too.

“I couldn’t get a sleigh, so this was the next best thing.”  he says.  “So here you are.”  Despite the cosiness, Beckett is suspicious.

“Castle,” she says ominously, “how did you manage to arrange this in the few moments you were in the bar without actually touching your phone?”  There is a short silence.  “Castle?”  Still nothing.  Beckett’s instincts kick into life.  She will _kill_ Lanie.  “Lanie told you, didn’t she?  That… That…” She can’t think of a phrase to describe Lanie that doesn’t include profanity and the word _corpse_.  She will kill her.  “When I get my hands on Lanie I will” – she stops.  Mainly because Castle is purring in her ear.

“I’d much rather you used your hands for delivering presents,” he growls.  She wonders how he’s defining _presents_.  A hand settles over her knee.  Its fingers are quite a long way above her knee.  It’s very distracting.  More snowflakes.  How are there snowflakes under all these lovely warm blankets?  All her thoughts of causing murder and mayhem in the morgue are dissipating.  “Santa’s supposed to bring joy and happiness.  Like this.”  He turns her round and kisses her briefly.   That’s not fair.  Surely he can kiss better than that?  That was barely a peck – what?  A moment ago she was meditating murder and now she’s criticising kisses?

Oh.  Ohhh.  The snowdrift is beginning to reach towards rather more… intimate… areas.  It’s getting rather close to the hem of the entirely too short skirt.  The skirt was barely covering anything important.  This should not be happening.  This is definitely  _naughty_ .  But it’s very, very nice.  But it’s naughty.  Santa does not reward naughtiness.  Which means that no matter how appealingly he looks at her, she is not going to give him any encouragement.  She isn’t.  Not at all. 

If she’s not going to reward him she should take her hand off his knee.  She should probably also take her mouth off his.  And his hand off her leg.  It’s nowhere near her knee now.  She’s certainly not cold any more.  Any snow anywhere near her would be melting.  She’s melting, right into Castle, who seems to have learned how to kiss properly sometime in the last sixty seconds.  He’s obviously a fast learner – _ohhh_.  Where’d he learn _that_?  That is very, very naughty.  And very, very nice.

The carriage pulls up outside the door of her block and Castle hops down, hands some bills to the coachman and then courteously hands her out.  He puts his arm back round her and steers her inside – she knows the way, she doesn’t need shown, it is _her_ block – and into the elevator.  Fortunately there’s no doorman in her building.  She doesn’t need anyone else – apart from half New York, of course, in that damn bar that Lanie insisted on – seeing Castle wrapping himself round Beckett-as-sexy-Santa.

She makes very sure that she doesn’t bend at all when unlocking her door.  The skirt is embarrassingly short.  Not that anyone would notice.  Castle’s crowding her again as she opens the door, hand firmly on her waist.  She’s fairly sure it’s not because he’s being a gentleman and protecting her from the leering masses, since leering masses don’t exist in her building.  Well, apart from the single leering mass behind her.  Once she gets inside she’s certain that it’s not because he’s being a gentleman.  Though she’s pretty sure he doesn’t want any leering masses anywhere near her.  This would definitely not be improved by an audience.  Castle didn’t bother waiting for permission before he’d crashed down on her mouth and shown her that she really shouldn’t have criticised any of his kisses. 

“I’ve always thought it was rather unfair,” he says, “that Santa only got a small glass of juice.”  He kisses her again, deeply, and pulls her against him.  “She deserves so much more.”  His tongue prevents her answering.  It also provides considerably more stimulation than the hypothetical glass of juice.  She curves into him and slides her hands up round his neck. 

“Maybe you should prove that you’re a good boy.”  Oh.  Maybe throwing down that gauntlet was a little misjudged.  She’s not at all sure that _boy_ was the right word.  He doesn’t feel boyish at all.

“I’m very, very good.  But I’m not a boy.”  Okay.  She’ll give him that.  He’s searched her mouth and plundered every present it could give, and now he’s nibbling round her neck to see if he can discover any other treats.  He nips her earlobe and she squirms.  “I’m very definitely all man,” he purrs into her ear.  His hand has wandered downward to ensure that she’s caught close enough to notice that.

The cape has gone.  Castle had untied it without so much as asking, slithered it off her shoulders, and taken full advantage of the opportunity to run his hands over the skin revealed.  Now he’s gazing hotly at the dress.  She wriggles.  “Santa _definitely_ never looked like that when I was growing up.”  He slides a soft finger across her collarbones, and watches a delicate flush creep across them.  “I would never have done this to the Santa in the mall.”  His head bends and he draws a wet, dirty line across the neckline of the dress.  “I like this Santa much better.”  He acquires a lazy, sleepy, sexy smile.  “Santa works so hard” – his head lifts and his fingers slip under the neckline and she gasps – “that she deserves a break.  A gift of her own.  Something she’ll really enjoy.”  She’s enjoying his fingers.  Oh yes.  She arches against them and starts to plan a little gift-giving of her own.

She starts with a Christmas kiss, deep, wet and dirty like the Manhattan snow, and follows up with a nibble to his lower lip that makes him tense and grip her harder.  One hand stays in his hair, keeping his mouth where she wants it, one slides down over his ass.  He’s rigid against her.  “Have you been good, Castle?” she whispers.  “Only good boys get a present from Santa.”


	2. Checking it Twice

“Oh yes, I’ve been good.”

“Are you sure?  I think you’re a very bad boy.”  She runs a firm hand straight down his front and strokes over the hard bulge.  “This doesn’t feel like you’re a good boy at all.”  She strokes some more, and he groans.  “Nope.  Not a good boy.”  She pauses, and steps slightly back.  Then she grins evilly.  “I might make an exception.  It is Christmas.  If you look really hard, then I’m sure you’ll find I’ve got a present for you.”  She’s barely finished the sentence before Castle has pounced on her.  This time he doesn’t give her the opportunity to say anything more.  Conveniently, she’d rather he was using his mouth like this.  More Christmas kisses.

She brings a leg up around him and rolls in, pressing over him and squirming deliberately over the weight there, undoing his button-down by touch and playing naughtily with his pecs, rolling his nipples till he forces her hands away.  That’s not fair.  He only gets a present if she does.  She hadn’t finished unwrapping.

Oh.   Okay.  He just wanted to do a little unwrapping of his own.  Though normally you unwrap the top layer first.  Castle seems to be unwrapping rather lower down.  (She’d drawn the line at stockings.  She’s not in Vice any more.)  He’s descended, leaving the dress untouched, and is currently peeling off her pantyhose, very carefully.  He slips them off and replaces her foot in each shoe and looks up from his position, kneeling at her feet.

“What does Santa like?” he asks.  His wickedly talented fingers run up the inside of her ankles and keep climbing.  “Does she like this?”  He opens her a little wider, and kisses each knee.  His mouth follows his fingers.  “Or that?”  Her hands grip on nothing, and she wobbles, unsupported.  His hands come up to her hips to hold her steady.

“Is this being a _good_ boy?” she asks huskily.

“I’m very good,” and his mouth reaches the naked skin of her thigh.  He certainly is.  Very good.  Excellent, in – _ohhh_ – fact.  She likes that present.  She likes it more with each stroke of his tongue.  She’d like it even more if she didn’t have to stand up.  She reaches for his head and pulls him up.

“Bed,” she breathes.  “Santa only comes when you’re in bed.”

“Is that so?”  He looks disbelieving.  “Better go to bed, then.  I wouldn’t want Santa not to come.”  He walks her all the way to her bedroom, kissing her all the way, and pushes her backwards till she’s lying flat.  “There.  Santa can come any time she likes.  I’ll be good for the whole night.”  Huh?  The whole night?  What exactly is being planned here?

He ducks his head back down and proceeds to show just how good he is.  Good and well-behaved are clearly not at all the same thing.  She’ll take good.  Well-behaved would be very dull.   _That_ is – _ohhh_ – not dull.  The man is not just good, he’s excellent.  Truly ta- _ohhh_ –lented.  Santa will definitely be coming _Castle please yes now_ tonight.

She seems to have been a little more unwrapped than she’d anticipated.  She’s still got the dress on.  And her heels.  The rest is mysteriously missing.  Must have been the elves.  She very much hopes that Santa doesn’t come but _once_ a year, though. 

Time for her to finish unwrapping her present.  Castle’s darkened eyes are smiling rather smugly down at her.  Hmmm.  That won’t do.  If there’s any smug satisfaction to be had, she’ll have it.  She sits up and shoves his shirt off his shoulders.  There.  That’s a good start.  She always takes the first layer of wrappings off quickly.  After that, she wants to… savour… it.  She pushes Castle’s big frame down into the pillows.  “Santa’s come,” she purrs sensually into his ear.  “Time for her to give you a present.” 

She slowly slides his belt from its buckle, not touching anything other than the leather.  She smiles very naughtily, turns her back on Castle’s head, and straddles his middle.  He breathes harder, and reaches for her, spreading large fingers intimately over her thighs, under the skirt.  She tuts.  “That’s not being _nice_ , Castle.  That’s being naughty.  Don’t you want a present?”

“I thought I’d got my present when Santa came.  All wrapped up in red velvet.”  His fingers move in a way that indicates what he thinks his present is.  She squirms against him.  “I like red velvet cake.  It’s one of my favourite things to eat.”  Cake, Castle.  Cake.  She is not a cake.

“No, you’ve not had your present yet.  Be good, and you’ll get it.”  His fingers stay still on her, but don’t drop away.  She lets that piece of disobedience pass, for now, and undoes his pants.  His hips flex as she pulls the pants away.  Ah.  There’s the Christmas costume.  She giggles.  Giggles?  She doesn’t _giggle_.  But the boxers have little cartoon reindeer speckled over them, interspersed with Christmas trees.  She peers more closely at the pattern, not scrupling to breathe moistly over Castle’s – er – assets.  Reindeer?  Christmas trees?  Ah… and candy canes on the trees.  How… sweet.

“Christmas boxers, Castle?”

“Yes.  Appropriate clothing for all circumstances.  Essential for the well-dressed writer about town.”

“Appropriate, hmmm?”  She twists round to look at him.  “Really?  I guess I’d better leave them there, then.  If they’re appropriate to the occasion.”  Castle grins back.

“I’ll let you decide what’s appropriate.  You being Santa and all.  I wouldn’t want to interfere with whatever Santa decides to bring me.”  The dirty look in his eyes tells her he’s only too happy with the present he thinks he’s about to receive.  He has no idea.  She turns back round and delicately peels off the boxers – mmmm, silk, mmmm – _mmmm_!  Oooohhh.  That’s a very pretty view indeed.  Oooohhh yessss.  And all hers.  Whose present was this anyway? 

She rolls the boxers down his legs, stretching out till her chest is flat along his legs and her soaked core is resting over his heat.  Then she slowly flexes back to sitting up and starts to enjoy herself.  Definitely her present.  All nicely unwrapped, no batteries or assembly required.  Time to play with her new toy.  She strokes gently, then firmly, then plays with the soft skin for a while.  This present comes with sound.  Mostly _oh fuck_ , which seems a bit profane for most presents – she’s sure that the talking toys in FAO Schwartz don’t say that, but then again she’s fairly sure that you can’t buy this toy in FAO Schwartz either – but she likes it.  So does he.  She plays for a little longer, then decides that it’s time to switch it up.

 _That_ was not the plan.  That was absolutely not the plan.  It was her game.  This is not fair.  She was happily deciding all the plays and he’s changed the whole game.  It’s _her_ present.  It wasn’t as if she’d been unkind.  Not at all.  She’d simply decided that since her fingers were tired it was time to use her mouth.  That’s no reason for him to pull her down flat and do the same.  Not at all.  How’s she supposed to concentrate on giving him his present (or playing with hers) if he’s doing that?  She twists her tongue evilly and uses her teeth in a totally filthy fashion and removes any control from Castle at all.  He’s stopped.  He seems to need all the air he can get.  He’s not talking any more.  Well, only one word.  _Beckett Beckett Beckett Beckett_.  Then it degenerates into an uncontrolled jerking of hips and a – well, roar.  He _definitely_ liked his present.

Oh.  She’s flat on her back, again.  This time she seems to be lying on Castle’s chest.  How’d that happen?  He shouldn’t have been able to think for at least a few minutes.  Come to that, he isn’t talking, so he can’t be thinking.  He can’t do one without the other.  Ever.  So this had nothing to do with conscious thought.  She tries to wriggle off to one side.  Nothing happens.  Oh.  She’s not sure about that.  Castle’s instinctive reaction is to keep tight hold of her?  That’s... worrying?  Weird?  Way out?  Welcome?   _What?_

After a moment or two (a very gratifying pause, that) Castle’s clearly regained brain function.  He’s talking.  He’s not making any sense (this is not new) but he’s talking.  She makes a considerable effort to loosen his arms and manages to roll over.  Not off, she notes, merely over.  She looks down into his rather dazed eyes.

“Mine,” he says again.  That must be the seventh or eighth time.  “All mine.  My present.”  It doesn’t make any more sense with repetition.  She stares blankly at him.  He’s displaying a particularly smug grin and radiating satiated satisfaction.

“What are you talking about?”

“Mine.”  She glares.  It doesn’t work nearly as well when she’s wearing a minimalist red velvet Santa dress as when she has her gun, but she tries.

“Mine what, Castle?”  His hand slides over the velvet dress and finds the curve of her ass.

“Mine.  I spent years trying to catch Santa and failing.  Now I’ve got her.”  She just _knows_ she’s gaping at him.  What is he on?  He can’t possibly mean that the way it sounds.  Her thinking is substantially impeded by the movement of his hand.  It’s stroked all the way down over the fabric and is now stroking over smooth skin.  She is very aware that she is naked under the dress – and that’s his fault, too.  As is the fact that she’s very hot and very damp.  His fingers are starting to move in some very distracting patterns.

“What” – she gasps as his fingers trail across her – “do you mean?”  She can’t even manage a sharp tone.  That’s useless, if she wants answers.

“I’ve caught Santa, and now I’m keeping her.  She’s my present.”  He’s deluded.  Delusional. She drops her head down on his shoulder and wishes it was a brick wall to beat it against.  That is just such a ridiculous statement she doesn’t know how to refute it.  “Mine,” he says happily, again.  His fingers slide slowly through her and pause to dip inside.

Okay, she’ll indulge the delusion.  She lifts her head.  “You can’t keep Santa.  Santa is for everyone.”

“Santa’s only for everyone on Christmas Eve.  Anyway, Santa is able to be everywhere in only a few instants on Christmas Eve.  She’s like a quantum wave.  Particle.  Both.  Schrodinger’s Santa.”  Beckett boggles at him.  This is insane.  Utterly insane in a way that only Castle ever manages.  How can he be like this even in bed?  “So I can have her all the time because quantum theory means that she can be delivering presents and still be with me.”  Her head crashes back down on to his chest in despair.  There’s just no arguing with the man.  She’ll get lost in another go-around of sheer madness.  One last try.

“You do realise that Santa isn’t real, don’t you?”  Castle fakes an expression of horrified misery.

“Santa isn’t real?  Nooooooo!”  Then he smiles.  “Of course she is.  She’s right here.”  Aaarghhhhh.

“If I’m Santa then I can’t possibly be a cop.  So you’ll have no-one to follow around.” 

“Santa has to have a day job.”  What?  “Otherwise how would she live?  She has to eat.  So she needs a job.  So why not be a cop?”  Castle is smirking smugly.  For every excuse she comes up with, it seems he’s going to have an answer.  She’s never going to win this.  She simply doesn’t have the sheer insanity required to deal with it.   Her head flops down again.

Castle rolls her over and off him on to her back on the bed.  She looks up at him leaning over her.  He smiles happily.  “My present.  My Santa.”  He kisses her, very unfairly, just before she’s about to argue some more.  Assuming she could think of an argument.  She _hates_ it when he uses insane theorising and silly stories to out-argue her.  If he’d stick to logic and common sense there would be no problem.  She’d win, every time.

If he stopped stroking like that she might be able to think of a good argument, too.  _Ohhhh._   It’s cheating, to play with her like that and stop her thinking.  Even if it feels so very, very good.  When did being naughty start to be so nice?  It’s ridiculous – _oohh_.  Maybe she should just enjoy the moment and leave the argument for later.  She tugs his head down, ignores his _ow_ – what’s he got ears for, if it’s not for directing him to the right place? – and kisses him firmly, nipping his lip and then stroking him till the only insanity he’s producing is insanely arousing actions and reactions.

She’s still wearing the dress.  This is not sensible.  She’d like to keep this dress.  Strictly for private purposes, of course.  She’s not wearing it in public ever again.  Especially not near Castle.  _Especially_ not when it seems that he’s exploring the contents in a way which should be kept _very_ private.  She tries to undo the zip, hindered quite considerably by Castle’s objections to her actions.

“I like velvet.  So very strokable.”  Yes, but that’s not the _dress_ he’s stroking. 

“It’ll need dry-cleaned,” she says pathetically.  It was supposed to be an acerbic comment.  It all went wrong about one letter in when he slipped a large finger slowly in and out.  She’s sure he only did it so she couldn’t talk.  Well, he was wrong.  Even if it did sound a lot more like a moan.

“Oh.”  Finally, something’s registering.  “That’s okay.  I’ll get you another one.” 

There’s something in his tone… if she could just concentrate for a second… if he wasn’t slowly taking her higher… if he wasn’t rising over her… if he wasn’t inside her and it didn’t feel so damn good and explosion wasn’t building in her and her brain shatters along with her body and his.

“Maybe you were right.”

“Uh?”  He’s admitting she was right?

“The dress.”   Dress?  He’s worrying about the _dress_?  She’s not worrying about the dress.  She’s not worrying about anything at all.  Santa doesn’t just come once a year, it seems.  Or even just once a night.

“What about the dress?”  _What_ about the dress?  Who cares about the dress?  Double standards are definitely operating here.  For someone who’d objected – forcefully – when she tried to take the dress off, it’s all very different when _he_ thinks it should be removed.  Humph.  On the other hand, she can’t do _that_ when she’s taking it off.  There is no way that _anyone_ would be flexible enough to unzip themselves and drop kisses – dirty hot wet kisses and occasional nips – on each vertebra.  Major flaw in the human design, that.  Mmmm.  She likes this.  Maybe the dress had some advantages after all.  Not that she’ll tell Lanie that.  Or Castle.  She might even allow Lanie to live, after a little casual torture and a small amount of maiming.

 _Ooohhh_.  The kisses have reached the dimple of her back.  Oh.  That is no fun at all, Castle.  He’s stopped.  She makes a cross little noise, which has no effect at all, and rolls over to try glaring instead.

“Perfect,” smirks Castle.  “Total mental attunement.”  He puts on a disgustingly sappy expression.  “We share a deep and meaningful connection.”  Ugh.  That is totally ridiculous.  Just because they finish each other’s sentences half the time does not mean that they have a _connection_.  She growls, to prove it.  It’s deeply disturbing that the growl is more of a satisfied purr.  Realising that she is currently totally satisfied – though the prospect of more gift-giving later is not unpleasant – is also disturbing.

Castle sliding the dress very slowly up and over her head, peeling off her push-up bra as he goes, and stroking, petting and/or kissing every single inch he exposes, is doing _nothing_ for her ability to think.  Nothing.  Lying naked beneath his hot gaze is also not helping.  He’s produced that gaze at odd intervals in the precinct.  There, it’s easy to shrug it off.  Right now, it’s not.   Though… she shrugs.  Ha.  That fetched him.  But now she’ll never be able to meet that look again without blushing furiously.  He’s doing some really, really wicked, naughty and stunningly _nice_ things with that evil, evil mouth, and if he adds a lick of his lips to that look in the precinct she’ll be forced to arrest him for provocation.  There’s no doubt about his guilt.  Castle is a very bad boy indeed.  He shouldn’t be allowed any presents at all.  Beyond the one of which he’s already taken possession, of course.

“There.  All unwrapped.  Now I can see the whole of my present.”  He produces a predatory smile, which makes him resemble a large, lazy, lion, idly contemplating his next meal.  “I like slow unwrapping.  I like anticipating my discoveries.  It makes playing with my present” – he draws a firm hand down the centre of her body and stops a little north of where he should – “so much better.”  He grins happily.  “And now that I’ve caught Santa and she’s my present I’ll have something” – why does that sound like _someone_? – “to unwrap all year round.”  Hold on – _what_?  Not just a Christmas fling?  What is _happening_ here?  “A gift that keeps on giving.”  Wait a moment.  Hang on.  This isn’t – _ohhhh_.  His fingers trail through her until she stops thinking.

Castle bends down and kisses her again, deep and slow and sure, rolls till she’s tight against him and she really did not instruct her leg to come up round his middle, skin to skin and heat to heat.

“Of course, it’s better to give than to receive,” he drawls deeply.  “I’ve received my presents” – his voice drops yet deeper into a fur-edged semi-growl that slinks over her nerves and should absolutely not be allowed on account of its effect on her brain – melting – and body – also melting – “and now it’s my turn to give.”  She rather thought he had.  Given, that is.  Given her two very much appreciated presents.  Still, she can cope with more presents.

 _Ohhhh yes._ She shouldn’t be asking for more presents.  She certainly shouldn’t be begging for them.  It’s bad manners to ask – _please Castle yes Castle_ – for presents.  _Please more just like that please_.  How is it that under his touch she’s one single erogenous zone?  It’s not physically possible.  _Ohhhh please don’t stop_.  He’s playing her like an instrument, but she’s fairly sure that the noises she’s making aren’t carols.  Or indeed singing.  She shatters like a thrown snowball.

“I love Christmas,” Castle murmurs.  “Don’t you?”

“Uh.”  Can’t she even manage words now?

“But I always felt that Santa got a bit of a raw deal, only coming once a year.”  The predatory smirk reappears.  “I feel that Santa should come a lot more often.  Every night, at least.”

“Uh?”  This is not articulate.  Nor is it stopping Castle.  She really ought to concentrate.  This sounds vaguely as if it might be important.

“So that’s settled.”

“What’s settled?”  She’s sure she’s missed something.

“You’re my present, and Santa ought to come every night.  So you’ll have to spend every night with me, Santa.”

It’s not fair.  She can’t object if her mouth is full.  Kissing her was _cheating_.  So’s doing _that_.  And definitely _that_.  Her brain has fried.  That’s surely why she’s saying _oh, okay then_.

And then she’s not saying anything at all.

* * *

 

Before she falls asleep, tucked into Castle’s arms, she thinks sleepily that she’ll _have_ to give Lanie a present now.


End file.
